


Baby's First Horns

by Egadds



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Both Wilbur and Schlatt are dead, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Insane Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Alexis | Quackity, Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mild Gore, No Dad!Schlatt, Schlatt Has Regrets, Schlatt is still a villain, Spoliers for Exile Arc, Swearing, This about the DSMP characters only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egadds/pseuds/Egadds
Summary: [Spoilers for the Exile Arc]In the void, they can sometimes catch glimpses of those they left behind. After the failed execution of Technoblade, Schlatt watches Tubbo make a plan.And then he sees the horns.(An exploration of both "What if Schlatt saw Tubbo with horns?" and "What if Schlatt knew about the Green Festival?" rolled into one.)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Baby's First Horns

**Author's Note:**

> Quick TW: Wilbur over the course of this fic gradually shifts through rage, mania, and complete apathy at times. I consider him and Ghostbur to be a two-halves-of-a-whole situation, so this Wilbur is pretty fucked up. There's no loss of memory or dissociating from objective reality, just Wilbur moving between headspaces depending on the context. Just something to keep in mind.

They don’t get much news, frankly. Sometimes they can see a glimpse of what they left behind- whatever powers that be peel back a few of the layers between their purgatory and everyone else, and then they can see and hear what’s happening for a little bit. They can’t control what they see (really, he wouldn’t know what he’d wanna see if he _could_ control it), so the two of them just crowd around the thin spot in the dark, each aching for more than the warped, semi-translucent view they can get of what’s happening below(?) them. They can hear sound, at least- sometimes it’s garbled nonsense, and it makes his fuckin’ ears hurt (not that it helps the hangover he managed to die with) but sometimes it’s _crystal clear_ , and a voice or two will peal out in their pocket of the void, making the walls shudder before the noise is absorbed.

Like right now, in fact.

 **“He was always- Dream was always getting fucking involved, with all these people, in all these fucking matters, that don’t even concern him!”** The image was pretty murky, but he could see Quackity screaming down the length of a table at a couple other guys. Schlatt rolls his eyes, and hears Wilbur scoff beside him. Yeah, uh, _no shit_. Quackity falters, just for a second, and a higher voice jumps in.

 **“I- but he’s been nice to us!”** Also predictable. Tubbo- God, fuckin’, this kid. He’d already given Wilbur shit for lettin’ the annoying one make him fuckin’ president of _his_ country. Tubbo wore his heart on his sleeve, for Christ’s sake. Quackity was more of a president than he was, and Quackity’s an idiot. He tunes back in.

 **“No, open your goddamn eyes, Tubbo, Dream has never been on our side! He has always been against us-”** Aaaaaaand he’s tuned out again. Good fuckin’ GOD, folks, get a goddamn grip. He drags one hand down his face, leaning back on the hand he’s got propping him up. He settles again, resting his hand over his eyes. He parts his fingers slightly as the argument continues, side-eyeing Wilbur, who’s still watching their makeshift TV screen. He’s scowling at the muddy image of their squabble (is he still pissed they tried to kill Technoblade?) but the expression doesn’t seem too outta place so Schlatt figures he won’t harass him for it. He closes his eyes, just for a second, but-

Wilbur hits him, a rough tap on his shoulder, gaze focused and clear. “Dude, look at this.” Schlatt sends him a glare, but when he looks back at the meeting room below them, he sees that it’s fucking wrecked. All their dumb little Technoblade wanted posters were hanging off the wall in tatters, Quackity gripping the remains of one in his hand. Tubbo was waving his hands at him, palms up, trying to get him to… calm down?

 **“We can’t just go around stabbing him, okay!? We have to be smart about it.”** Huh? They’re trying to kill someone again? That voice though- that was definitely Tubbo. The fuck did he miss?

Quackity’s furious, jogging around the table as he chants some shit about how he’ll fucking kill someone. He’s halfway out the door to the tunnel before Tubbo grabs him and hauls him back inside the room.

 **“Okay! Okay, okay, okay-”** Tubbo’s voice gets softer, like he’s placating him. Are they really gonna try to kill Techno again? Cause he’s pretty sure that he’s got more of those totems back at his base.

**“We need to- we need to make some kind of plan, okay? Okay- now, do you have any ideas?”**

He waits a beat, just enough for Quackity to say **No** _,_ before he jumps back in again, looking at everyone.

**“Okay. You remember what Schlatt did to me?”**

The void constricts around the two of them, the pressure making the air thinner. They don’t fuckin’ look at each other, Schlatt taking the time to inspect the fading label on his bottle, and Wilbur turning away from him. Schlatt can feel his regrets double their weight, but something’s off, cause why would the kid bring that up now? Hey, _wait,_ hold on- weren’t they talking about—

 **“He made me decorate my own execution.”** Tubbo’s face is murky through the void, but even Schlatt can see that his eyes are far off into the middle distance. There’s something cold in him, now, since Schlatt-

Schlatt grips the bottle he’s holding a little harder and tries to ignore the dread he feels building.

 **“He had a festival, of sorts. I say-”** and he pauses, hard gaze sweeping over the room, and Wilbur takes a sharp breath through his nose- **“we have our own festival. Our own L’manburg festival, to celebrate the friendship between our nation and Dream…”**

In the brief pause he takes, he sees somethin’ _dark_ , something _bad_ , in Tubbo’s face. Something Schlatt _recognizes_ , the expression very familiar on the last face he’d expected to see it on.

**“… but really, it’s just a plot to kill him.”**

Schlatt didn’t notice that the walls were quivering until they stopped. The quiet hum of the void cut out almost entirely. It was just Tubbo, standing there, in a room full of people giving him shocked looks. For a brief moment, like it was the punchline to some sick joke, another layer peeled back, and the picture became a little clearer. Tubbo’s face was determined, and stern, but there was something else on his face, something-

Wait, huh? He looks—

Wait, are those—

No, hold on, no, NO, _NO! -_

The void trembled and dipped low beneath him, the substance unprepared for the way Schlatt threw himself backwards, scrambling to get away from Tubbo, who has- _who has—_

“He fucking has _horns,_ dude!” Wilbur’s yelling, he’s looking down at the view from where he apparently stood up in shock. He’s got his hands over his face, and he’s shaking, and he’s backing away in Schlatt’s direction, eyes still glued to the patch in the void like glue.

But Schlatt’s not listening, he’s not listening. He has _horns._ Fuck, do they look like what his did at that age? No, _no_ , no, he’s not thinking about that. Fuck. He tried to execute Technoblade, didn’t he? He put Phil under house arrest. And now he’s- now he’s planning-

Then Wilbur’s looking down at him, standing just beside his head.

“Why the fuck is he turning into you?” His voice was cold, his eyes hard, but his fingers still twitch, shaking ever-so-slightly. Blood that never stops seeps out of the hole in his torso at a faster pace, and Schlatt imagines for an instant that he can feel the heat radiating off it as it hits the void. Schlatt made some kinda fuckin- choking, gasping- noise involuntarily, scrambling for any kind of clarity. Wilbur bent down, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him forward onto his knees, furious.

“Why the FUCK is he becoming you!?” Wilbur’s eyes were wide, almost manic, but rage was clearly keeping the laughter at bay for now. Schlatt let out some dumb, stuttering noises as his hands failed to grip Wilbur’s wrists for purchase. Wilbur shook him then, _hard._ Miraculously, it got a response in human English to tumble out of his mouth.

 _“I don’t know!”_ Schlatt was yelling(?) but it came out like a gasp, broken and rough around the edges. Why was he so worked up about this? Why does he fucking care?

He looked up at Wilbur after a beat, clearing his throat. He said again, in a better tone-

“I don’t know, Wilbur. I don’t know, I- fuck, the kid never had ‘em with me. Believe me, I had absolutely nothing to do with it.” He’s still freaked out, still upset(???), and he doesn’t know why. Why would he care that Tubbo… that Tubbo-

Wilbur dropped him, and Schlatt sunk in on himself unceremoniously, hands gripping the fabric of his dress pants as he hunched over. Breathing somehow had gotten a lot harder in the last five minutes, and his whole body shook with the effort. Wilbur wasn’t done, though, taking the opportunity to pace around their little enclosure, hands waving rapidly as he spoke.

“Of _course,_ you wouldn’t- of course you wouldn’t fucking know! Why would you, huh? That’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? No, we can’t have that, that’s just _bad writing!_ ”

Wilbur spat the pertinent words in his direction and spent the rest of the time raving to himself, the look in his eyes slowly crawling towards the middle distance. The anger was still in control for now, which was lucky, but Schlatt could hear the mania encroach the edges of his words. He glanced over to where he saw Tubbo last and found that the void had already folded over itself again, blocking their view of the server. Schlatt covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to get the weight to ground him. One of his thumbs brushed against the side of one of his own horns and there was some sound- some kind of hitching gasp- right as he felt it. Wilbur, who had kept monologuing after he tuned out, stilled, the sounds of his pacing and ranting gone eerily quiet. Schlatt couldn’t see him (didn’t wanna see him, didn’t wanna see shit), but he could hear him moving over, hear the quiet giggles under his breath as he moved closer. The void dipped as Wilbur crouched down in front of him, lightly wrapping his fingers around Schlatt’s wrists.

“Schlatt? Schlatt, look at me. Let me see you.” He chuckled as he gently tried to pull Schlatt’s hands away, the sound of his voice breathy and light. He’s manic. Schlatt kept his palms pressed against his eyes, holding himself together through the pressure. Another tug, this time more forceful.

“ _Schlatt,_ ” he says, and there’s a harsh edge to his light tone now, “c’mon, I wanna see. Let me see.” The way Wilbur then roughly yanked his arms surprised him enough to lose his grip, and Schlatt looks at Wilbur, watching his barely contained smile split into a wicked grin as something warm hits his cheek. Wilbur’s eyes dart to focus on it, and he _laughs,_ cackling in his face.

“Dude, are you _fucking crying_ right now?” Schlatt locks up, instinctually trying to flinch backward, to tear away, but Wilbur’s grip on his wrists is tight enough to bruise, and the frustration draws a noise from Schlatt that sounds suspiciously like a _sob._

Wilbur laughs harder, gasping between words as he yells, “This is- fucking, just- _brilliant!_ This is perfect, oh, _God,_ Schlatt-” Wilbur shifts his grip from his wrists to his horns, then, and the contact _burns._ He thrashes, struggling in his panic, but his reflexes are slow, and Wilbur’s laughing as he’s thrown about, like a cowboy at the rodeo, and more tears are running down his face, so he _kicks,_ and he kicks, and he lands one, the toe of his dress shoe getting _caught_ in Wilbur’s dumb fucking wound for a second as he shoves him away, taking the instant he has to scramble back and stand up into a position he can fucking defend himself in. Wilbur’s still keeled over, arm wrapped around his chest as he holds himself up on his hands and knees, spluttering out gobs of bloody spit into the void as he keeps _fucking laughing._

Schlatt’s breathing hard, and once he’s sure that Wilbur won’t come after him again, he takes a second to wipe his face with his sleeve, glaring down at Wilbur. He should, he knows, keep his damn mouth shut, but the dampness of his right sleeve cuts deep at his pride, so instead he sneers,

“Yeah, that’ll teach you to come near me, _Wilbur._ Don’t you put your fucking hands on me again.” His voice has a damp, shaky quality to it, but he puts as much venom into the words as possible. It’s a threat, and Wilbur- even like this- isn’t stupid enough to assume he’s bluffing. Wilbur huffs out a chuckle to himself, smiling at the void beneath him. He opens his mouth, then reconsiders and closes it. He hums, then says, side-eyeing him-

“I wonder if they’ll look like yours.” Schlatt flinches involuntarily, still glaring down at him, and Wilbur grinned at his slip, eyes flashing.

“What, mate, don’t tell me you’re _guilty._ ” Wilbur spits the words at his feet as he shifts into a sitting position, looking up at him.

“Who fuckin’ says I am?” Wilbur scoffs, showing teeth. He continues as if Schlatt hadn’t spoken.

“Did the big bad President suddenly grow some morals? Hell of a time for it, frankly, seeing as we’re fucking _dead_ now.” He laughed bitterly, then, grin warping into a wry little smile. He cocks his head, adding, “Or, maybe, _mayyybe,_ ” he chuckles, giving him a side eye, “you’ve felt just a smidge of remorse the whole time? Tell me, Schlatt, did you have a little _soft spot_ for Tubbo? Real shame you killed him, then, if that’s true. That’d be tragic.”

“I never cared about Tubbo. That’s why I fucking executed him.” Wilbur clucks at him, a disappointed little _tut_ as he looked askance.

“Well, it’s certainly no fun if you’re just gonna lie about it.” He looked back with a little smirk, like he’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. He narrowed his eyes.

Schlatt bristled but resolutely said nothing, glaring holes into Wilbur, wishing he’d been there to see Philza kill the fucker if for nothing but to soothe his own ego. Wilbur’s smile only widened as the silence stretched. He stood up on shaky legs, wincing in pain, but he got there, one arm loosely draped around the gash in his stomach as the other pointed accusatorily at him.

“Oh-ho-ho! The silent treatment, eh? _What,_ it’s not like some kind of hidden secret, is it? Although that _would_ be interesting.” He steps forward somewhat smoothly, putting his finger to his chin as he thought. After a moment, his eyes brighten up suddenly, and he turns to Schlatt.

“He’s not your kid, is he? That would explain the little horns and the, uh, resulting panic.” Schlatt let his face drop into an unamused frown, snarling.

“Wilbur, how ‘bout you go fuck yourself?” Wilbur nodded resolutely and drew an invisible line across his palm, and Schlatt seethed at the sudden nonchalance.

“Right, so he’s not your kid. Then what _is it_?” He’s talking mostly to himself, now, so Schlatt backs up ‘till he’s leaning against a relatively vertical section of void, heaving a deep sigh. Wilbur continues to tut and pace, tut and pace, intermittently mumbling things. Then, as the erratic sunovabitch he is, he stops again, pivots, and points directly at Schlatt.

“I was right when I asked why he’s becoming you. You’re scared because you see yourself and your failures in him.” Some emotion hears that and curdles into a lead stone in his stomach without his say-so. Schlatt, in response, doesn’t dignify that with an answer, choosing instead to drag his hand down his face, exhaustion seeming to take his anger’s place at the forefront of his mind. Wilbur’s got that self-righteous tone in his voice again, and it makes the foot that took a dip in his torso twitch slightly. What, he spends a few months in a hole in space-time and suddenly he’s a goddamn psychiatrist? Get fuckin’ real. It hits him about a minute later that Wilbur had kept talking at him, only realizing he’d stopped when silence once again filled up their space in the void.

Wilbur takes a minute to collect his thoughts, then seemingly switched tactics, as he creeped up to Schlatt with something that barely passed as a kind smile plastered on his face.

“Awwe, c’mon, Schlatt. I won’t tell. Literally. There’s no one either of us could ever tell it to, because we’re dead. Plus, I’ve been told I’m really quite a good listener.” Schlatt takes his hand off his face and looks at Wilbur, the shit that he is. He’s tired. He’s been tired since he died, since before he died.

“Why do you care? The fuck is it to you?” Wilbur considers that- he rolls his shoulders and tilts his head, mulling it over. Eventually he settles, tossing a shrug and grin at Schlatt’s feet.

“It’s interesting. I wanna know why the guy who killed him would cry over him. I mean, it’s not like I’m attached to him anymore.” Schlatt huffed, brows furrowing, a scowl making its way across his face.

“Well, prepare to be fuckin’ disappointed, then, ‘cause I don’t give a fuck about Tubbo, and if I did, I-” he pauses, feels a cold chill make it’s home where his heart used to be. His expression, just for an instant, softens into a more genuine confusion without his permission, and he schools it back into place. He glances back at Wilbur, who’s still waiting (surprisingly) patiently.

“I wouldn’t know why I did. I can’t think of a reason.” Wilbur seems- not mollified, per say, but accepting of his answer. Some of his previous presence of mind seems to be leaving him, though, so he might just be starting to crash. In that case, Schlatt should stop talking- Wilbur will forget about the subject till he gets hopped up again. He closes his eyes, and sees Tubbo, horns and all, talking about a second festival without a hint of trepidation, of hesitance. Did he think of it before? Was he waiting to bring it up? Wilbur’s fading fast in front of him, almost swaying.

“Why’d you say that I see myself in him?”

He doesn’t register his own voice (the traitorous fucker) as he asks the one question that’ll keep Wilbur around for a little longer. Why does he care? Why does he give a fuck about some nutjob’s psychoanalysis?

Wilbur, of course, comes back to Earth at that, sending a little grin Schlatt’s way. Graciously, he asks,

“’Why do you care? The fuck is it to you?’” He cackles at his own joke, head thrown back as he laughs, and Schlatt damns the part of himself that ever thought he could ask that goddamn question. How _stupid_ was he? Jesus Christ. He turns away abruptly, scowl in place, getting ready to shut down. Wilbur suddenly stopped laughing. Schlatt felt his eyes burn the side of his face. _Was that the side Tubbo had his scars on?_

“It’s the fact that the horns scared you.” Huh?

Apparently, he’d spoken aloud, ‘cause Wilbur elaborated, “Well you weren’t… you know… until after you saw his horns. That’s when you realized that he was becoming you, doing the shit you did, and it scared you. So, uh, it’d only be logical to assume you’d seen yourself in him.” Wilbur pointed to his temples for emphasis as he spoke. He looked self-assured again, but he looked more like how he was before his downfall, a little less crazy and a little more… himself. It was odd, and it made Schlatt uncomfortable. Everything about this made him uncomfortable. He sighed, closing his eyes, crossing his arms, and leaned into the void a little more.

If he thought about it- as in, actually forced himself to think about it, and not just ignore his memories with booze- Tubbo was a good kid. That was it, that was all there was to it. He was loyal to his friends, and not to him, which got him fucking killed, but he was good. Nice. Helpful. The kind of neighborhood boy that parents compared their kids to, y’know? Tubbo wanted people to think he was kind and useful like it was nobody’s business. Seriously, it was kind of unbelievable how far backwards he’d bend, even with all the running around Schlatt made him do (and the errands Wilbur had him running on the side).

Killing Tubbo was a statement piece- a public example to show that Yes, Schlatt would kill him, this sweet kid that never hurt anyone, because he was a Traitor. Schlatt and Quackity went up in the blast, but that wouldn’t be the only time that choice would kill him. No one trusted him after the festival, no one wanted to be near him, and so they’d all left. He’d told Technoblade to kill a kid, and Technoblade did, and everyone turned their swords against him because _how could he?_

And how could he? Now, he’s staring down eternity with his sworn enemy and everything feels so fucking _small._ He’d killed a good kid, and it got him nothing but an early grave and a desecrated corpse, dying in a room of people prepared to slaughter him like some gruesome retelling of _Caesar._ Why’d he do it? Why’d he do any of it? It didn’t get him anything.

It didn’t get him anything.

And now he sees that same good kid, burned and scarred from a hundred betrayals, growing horns and planning executions disguised as festivals. He sees a coldness, a wall, in his eyes where there was only open emotion before. He sees a failed execution, and a house arrest, and a violent streak, and-

And—

And he doesn’t want Tubbo to die _alone_ , like he did.

He doesn’t want the death of this kid to be met with _cheers_ , like his was.

That’s the nail in the coffin, isn’t it? Jesus fucking Christ. Wilbur was goddamn _right_ , and the knowledge hisses in his veins and bites at his pride.

It’s a hell of time to grow morals.

He sinks down the malleable walls of the void, his feet sticking out in front of him as he sits. He glances up at Wilbur, who’s now looking particularly vacant, staring at the nothingness around them with complete apathy.

Schlatt settles himself, glancing at the blood on his shoe as he pushes against the void to make more room to get comfortable. He closes his eyes again and feels the weight of the horns on his head, feels the soreness of his eyes, feels the sting of a wounded pride and the ever-present chill of regret, and begs for sleep.

He puts a hand over where his heart used to be, and absentmindedly wonders whether or not he misses having a heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading. This was just meant to be a funky little test to see if I could write these characters well. Quick lil note- uh, Schlatt's not meant to be good here, the guy's a total piece of shit, I'm just playing around with the idea of him being a little more well-rounded than in canon. Have a good one!


End file.
